


A Night in Majorca

by bea_flowers



Category: The Night Manager (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 14:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30140868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_flowers/pseuds/bea_flowers
Summary: You’ve known Richard Roper for years and have been a frequent guest at his parties in Majorca. You’re known for your charm, a quality Roper often uses to his advantage by setting you up with a specific guest. A few free drinks, a bit of harmless flirting, perhaps a bit more, if you’re interested—good old fun and games. You don’t think this night will be any different, until you meet Andrew Birch.
Relationships: Andrew Birch & Reader, Andrew Birch & You, Andrew Birch/Reader, Andrew Birch/You, Jonathan Pine & You, Jonathan Pine & reader, Jonathan Pine/Reader, Jonathan Pine/You
Kudos: 4





	A Night in Majorca

You step out onto the hotel terrace. The sound of clinking glasses, boisterous laughter, and muffled music fills the air. You feel at home in the chaos, and strut confidently through the outdoor bar in your flowing dress.

Your stilettos clack on the stone as you trek through the courtyard, down the staircase, and toward the din. It’s a familiar path, one you’ve walked dozens of times before. You’re comfortable. You know what to expect—and who.

Richard Roper: kind, generous, charming. You have yet to find a reason to dislike the man. You’ve grown close to him over the years; been on the business end of a few toasts, earned an endearing nickname, bonded with his girlfriend, Jed, even.

You enjoy Roper’s company, his sense of humor, his attentiveness and protective nature, the way he worships Jed and the ground she walks on. And the bottomless bottles of Dom Perignon he endlessly pours don’t hurt. At least, not until the morning.

A night with Roper and Co. means dazzling a prospective client or agricultural equipment supplier. A bit of flirting, a little drinking, a few laughs—maybe more if you really hit it off, though that doesn’t happen often. Despite the fact that you could easily be reduced to a glorified set piece, simply there to look pretty, Roper has never treated you as such. To you, he’s a good man.

Corky is the first to see you. He stumbles forward, already drunk. “Don’t you look lovely,” he drawls, his slurred cadence a combination of the drunkenness and his natural skepticism.

“And you, Corky,” you sing, “handsome as always.”

Corky huffs and shouts over his shoulder, “Dicky, I do believe your Kitten has arrived.”

You follow Corky’s eyeline. Roper is sat in an outdoor armchair, cigar in hand, laughing with Sandy Langbourne. He looks up and starts toward you. “Ah, Kitten, you’re here!” He gives you a swift kiss on the cheek and says, “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

_Of course there is_. It’s time to work your magic.

The someone easy to spot. He’s lounging beside Jed with his right ankle perched on his left knee and his elbow propped on the back of the sofa. A champagne flute dangles limply in his hand, still full as though he’s only taken one or two sips. The sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones hit the light, casting shadows over his perfectly sculpted face. His brow hangs heavy over his eyes, but even from twenty feet away you can see their brilliant blue hue. He scrubs a hand over his strawberry-blond curls, then over his stubbled chin, revealing a mesmerizing smile when he drops his hand and laughs at something Jed said.

Normally, you’re the one doing the vexing, but this man has thrown you. How can you be expected to charm a man like that when he’s already charmed you?

You wave a quick hello to Sandy as Roper guides you toward the pair with a flat palm between your shoulder blades. Jed grins when she sees you, leaps off the sofa, and greets you with a peck. She cups your cheeks and scrunches her nose, saying, “You won’t believe how glad I am to not be the only woman here anymore.”

“Where’s Caro?” you ask. “Isn’t she usually around?”

“She had a prior engagement.”

You know before you turn that the velvety voice belongs to the someone.

He stands, one hand buttoning his suit jacket, the other clasping his champagne flute. His features are more striking up close—his angles sharper, his eyes bluer, his face handsomer.

Jed flits around you and squeezes your shoulders. “This,” she says, “is Kitten.”

“Kitten, huh?” he laughs, putting his flute down on the coffee table between you.

“A nickname,” you explain, and properly introduce yourself.

“Andrew Birch,” he says, holding out his hand to you. You shake it, trying desperately to ignore the tingles that prance up your arm when you touch.

He gestures to the sofa, inviting you to sit. You do. He points a fresh glass in your direction. “Champagne?”

“Yes, please,” you say, wiggling into your seat, getting comfortable. You lift a parting hand at Jed when she heads off to meet Corky, Sandy, and Roper, leaving you alone with Andrew.

Your fingertips brush when you take the full champagne flute from Andrew’s hand. The contact ripples through your body in numbing waves, as though the heat of his skin is affecting your nerves the way the moon affects the tides.

Andrew settles into his previous perch and twists at the waist to face you head on. “It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” you sigh. “There are few things as beautiful as the island this time of year. Have you been in Majorca long?”

“No,” says Andrew, “only a few months.”

“That would explain why I haven’t met you before.”

“You come here often then?” he asks, then winces, “That sounded like a line, didn’t it?”

Your laugh rings like a wind chime, bringing a smile to Andrew’s face.

Andrew’s eyes bore into yours, piercing straight through your soul. Looking at him so closely, you notice his lip quiver, his Adam’s apple bob, and his neck tense. He tears his gaze from yours abruptly, clearing his throat. He leans back into the cushions, putting a few more inches between the two of you, and drums his fingers on the arm of the sofa.

“So how do you know Roper, then?” he asks.

You take a hearty swig, then beam at him. “I guess you could say we’re old friends.”

A playful ease falls over Andrew’s face. His eyes rake over your body, making intermittent stops at the hem of your dress, the curve of your hips, the cinch of your waist, then the swell of your breasts.

Your skin burns under his stare. Heat spreads through your chest, deep into your core. None of Roper’s associates have been as charismatic or good-looking as Andrew. You curse yourself for being swept away by the roguish way he looks at you.

You talk through the night. With each giggle, he moves closer. With each sip, you inch nearer. By midnight, you’re practically sitting on top of one another, completely enamored with the other.

Andrew smiles and says, “Walk with me?”

You nod and follow him up the wide staircase to the secluded balcony. You walk in charged silence, electricity crackling in the air around you, popping with words unsaid, sparking with your desire to leap into his arms and kiss him.

The breeze picks up. The cool night air tickles your bare skin, making you shiver, but the champagne buzzing in your head keeps you warm. When you disappear behind a row of marble columns, Andrew finally speaks.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks. You nod. His sea-blue irises flicker, alight with intrigue, aflame with something darker. He licks his lips and stalks toward you, forcing you backward into the column behind you. He presses his body against yours, bookending you between muscle and marble.

Andrew coils his hand around your waist, never breaking eye contact. His hot breath fans over your face as he says, “I’ve spent all evening thinking about what you’d look like coming on my tongue.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Your core pulses in time with your heart. You study his face and the delighted smirk spreading across it. His honeyed voice is soaked in sex as he continues.

“Do you want me to touch you, darling? Do you want me to taste you? To bury myself between your thighs and make you come over and over again until the only word on your gorgeous lips is my name?”

He gathers the skirt of your dress in his fist and slips his hand between the apex of your thighs and under your lace panties. He swipes his fingertips over your wet folds, making you shudder, then sinks his finger into your slick cunt. He brings his lips to your ear.

“Because that’s what I want,” he says.

Andrew curls his finger inside you, rubbing the pad of his thumb on your clit. You dig your nails into his suit-clad shoulders and duck your head to muffle a moan. He chuckles lightly, watching your face contort and relax as he pleasures you. It’s a teasing touch; not enough to make you come, but enough to warm you up.

You’re far from climax when Andrew removes his finger, leaving you to clench around nothing, and sucks it clean. He closes his eyes and smiles, satisfied. His eyes flash open, burning with a new hunger—he needs more, and he needs it _now_.

He grabs your wrist and drags you along. You stumble after him, trying to keep up with his hurried gait. Andrew drags you into an open elevator, hits a button, and stands stoic. You run your palm over his chest, but he stops you.

“Not here,” he says.

The elevator doors open and you fly down the corridor, stopping short outside a door. Andrew slips his keycard into the lock and herds you inside. Before the door clamors shut, he’s shed his suit jacket and pinned you up against the wall. His lips crash against yours, moving with a dexterous passion that surprises you.

His hands roam over your curves greedily, etching your figure to memory. You whine when he tears his lips from yours, but your complaint soon becomes an approving moan when he puts his mouth on your neck, nipping and sucking, marking you as his.

His hair tickles your chin as your jaw falls open, allowing the quiet cries to fall freely past your teeth. You tangle your fingers in his hair and hold him closer, urging him on, begging for the continued presence of his mouth on your skin. Andrew gathers your dress in his fists, then breaks your kiss to yank it over your head. He flings it aside and takes you in, in all your glory.

He returns to you with a newfound fierceness. His grasp on your form tightens, his grip needier, his touch hungrier. He grunts into your shoulder, the vibrations raising goosebumps on your skin. He nips playfully at your breasts and stomach as he lowers himself to the floor.

You look down at him, kneeling in front of you. His brows raised, his forehead wrinkled, his eyes shining with lust.

He holds his stare as he tugs the stilettos off your feet. He slides his hands up your thighs and pulls down your panties. The white lace is soaked, nearly transparent. When he sees your dripping core, bare to him, a primal groan resounds in the back of his throat. He hikes your knee over his shoulder and dives between your legs.

Andrew licks you languidly, savoring your taste and every sound that pours from your parted lips. He’s insatiable, lapping at your core, dipping the tip of his tongue between your folds, sucking your clit into his mouth.

Your orgasm builds deep in your pelvis, hot and desperate. You hold one hand flat against the back of his head, drawing him further into you. You roll your hardened nipple between your forefinger and thumb.

Andrew feels how close you are, how your hips quiver and your thighs quake, how the expletives falling from your lips slur and string together. He laps earnestly at your clit, unyielding and unwavering, until he feels you gushing on his tongue. You clamp a hand on his shoulder for stability while your climax surges through you.

You expect Andrew to let up after your first release, but he doesn’t. He keeps his mouth fixed on your dripping core—ravenous, starved, consuming you like you’re his last meal. Your limbs are numb, your nerves on fire, but the skillful work of Andrew’s tongue coaxes you to release again. And again.

Your ability to think ceases after the fourth orgasm. Your knees buckle as you come, your legs so weak and wobbly you’re unable to hold yourself upright. Andrew grabs your hips and pushes you into the wall. It’s only then that he finally lifts his head.

His face is covered in your arousal, lips and chin glistening with the proof of your pleasure, the pleasure _he_ brought you. He rubs the side of his jaw—it must be aching, but he doesn’t seem to mind—and stands again. He curls a hand around the back of your neck and brings you in for a tender kiss.

You taste the mixture of champagne and your cunt on his tongue, the bittersweet tang of your evening together. An evening that has yet to come to an end.

Andrew hooks his hands around the backs of your thighs and lifts you. You wrap your legs around him instinctively and keep your mouth on his as he walks you over to the bed. The two of you collapse onto the mattress, still entwined, your bare heels digging into his lower back, his palms flat against your spine.

You tug his hair, pulling his face back, and meet his lustful gaze. “Fuck me, Andrew.”

Andrew smiles widely and chuckles. “But, darling, I’m not done tasting you yet.”


End file.
